


love of my life (don't leave me)

by LassieLowrider



Series: As the saying goes - Good Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-typical Alcohol Consumption, M/M, Mutually unrequited love, ish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 14:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LassieLowrider/pseuds/LassieLowrider
Summary: What you, as an occult or ethereal being wanting to summon a demon, need is this: concentration, and a genuine want to see the demon in question.Aziraphale, who almost always wanted to see Crowley, usually had to make quite an effort to not summon him at the drop of a hat. That concentration went straight out the window when Aziraphale was drunk, hardly surprising, which never really posed a problem, since Aziraphale and Crowley always got drunk together.or: Aziraphale gets very drunk and very maudlin, and wants Crowley to be there





	love of my life (don't leave me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Queen's _Love of My Life_
> 
> I own nothing, I'm just playing around in this sandbox

Summoning a demon is, by and large, not a thing easily done. Humans - especially such that aren’t well-versed in the occult learnings - need a ritual, preferably tailored for if not the demon in question at least the kind of demon they want to summon; they also need a sacrifice, or rather the blood of an animal (if you don’t want to do the sacrificing of the animal yourself, storebought is fine), fifteen candles in staggered sizes, a diagram drawn by hand in the worst kind of chalk money can’t buy, and a big heaping dose of faith that the ritual will work. It’s still about fifty-fifty anything at all will happen, and the chance of a demon, any demon, appearing is about five percent. If the demon being summoned is having a very bad day, the chance increases to seven percent.

It’s really not favourable odds.

If, however, the one doing the summoning is another occult or ethereal being - i.e. if it’s an angel or another demon - the chances of managing to summon the very demon they’re aiming for is as close to hundred percent as it can get without actually  _ being _ hundred percent - the summoned demon can, of course, resist the summoning. 

What you, as an occult or ethereal being wanting to summon a demon, need is this: concentration, and a genuine want to see the demon in question.

Aziraphale, who almost always wanted to see Crowley, usually had to make quite an effort to  _ not  _ summon him at the drop of a hat. That concentration went straight out the window when Aziraphale was drunk, hardly surprising, which never really posed a problem, since Aziraphale and Crowley always got drunk together. 

However, the night this whole story properly starts, disregarding the six thousand years of build-up and two months of anticlimax since the Armageddon’t, Aziraphale was for the first time since he and Crowley started their Arrangement getting very, very drunk, while very alone. Very drunk was a bit of an understatement, absolutely sodden, entirely soused or, for that matter, suffering a blood alcohol content level that would have killed five humans instantly is a more accurate description.

The thing with Aziraphale (and indeed Crowley, even if that isn’t at that moment applicable) is that he gets very maudlin when drinking alone, and the drinking seems to entirely obliterate his self-control. 

That was why Crowley was, at that moment in time, on his way into a bookshop in SoHo. He’d been Summoned. It deserved the capital letter, since he hadn’t actually been summoned by this particular being since the French Revolution, at which point the angel had been imprisoned, awaiting a beheading. 

Understandably, Crowley was more than a bit nervous about what awaited him inside the shop. He’d envisioned everything from the legions of Hell having come after him, to the shop once again being on fire. Finding Aziraphale laying motionless on his back, arms splayed as if he’d fallen from a great height, that only increased Crowley’s fear. Last he’d seen an angel lying like that, had been the Fall. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called when he caught sight of him, letting the door fall shut with a heavy thud behind him. He stopped in his tracks, however, when Aziraphale started flailing around, attempting to get off the ground.

“Crowley! You’re here!” The angel slurred every word heavily, giving up his attempt to get up when he only managed to turn on his side, but his main objective - seeing Crowley - was achieved.

“Course I’m here, angel,” the demon replied, sauntering over to where the angel was laying, reaching a hand down to help him up. “You summoned me, remember?”

“Oh, did I, did I really?” Aziraphale said, stumbling over his words more than Crowley had ever heard him do before. When Aziraphale grabbed his hand and heaved himself up onto his feet, Crowley expected him to let go immediately to brush himself off, as he usually did if the two of them ever touched.

Not so that day. Instead, Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand ever tighter, using the hold to drag the demon into an embrace. Before Crowley could gather his bearings again, he had a very drunk angel hanging around his neck, blond curls brushing his cheek as Aziraphale nuzzled his neck.

Crowley wasn’t entirely certain what to do with his hands, keeping his arms out to the side, but Aziraphale only continued nuzzling his neck, seemingly not noticing how stiffly Crowley held himself.

“Angel? What are you doing?” Crowley had to ask when it seemed like Aziraphale wasn’t planning on stopping whatever it was he was doing.

“I just,” Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley couldn’t stop himself from shivering when his breath brushed his neck. Aziraphale pressed himself closer, nuzzling into Crowley’s neck, leaning most of his weight on the demon. “I just wanted to… to see you, and tell, tell you I love you.”

Crowley froze, and straightened up as if someone had taken hold of his shoulders and pulled. He managed to get his hands between Aziraphale and him, pushing the angel away from him.

“ _ What _ .” Almost managing to convey his disbelief with his voice, he held his hands up, backing away from the inebriated angel. Aziraphale, in turn, looked dazed, trying to follow him. “Stop that.”

Aziraphale  _ did  _ stop, looking so bereft Crowley was ready to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness for whatever he’d done, but what Aziraphale had said and was doing was so far from his usual behaviour Crowley had genuinely started wondering if the angel had been discorporated and his usual corporation was now being possessed by a demon.

“I love you?” Aziraphale said again, tone of voice the same as someone trying to explain something obvious. “I’ve loved you since, you know, that time in that church, the church with the books?”

Hearing that, Crowley felt rather like every single dream he’d dreamt for the past six thousand years had just come true, until it hit him again just how much Aziraphale was slurring his words, and he realised exactly how drunk the angel actually was. Crowley hadn’t seen him this drunk since the Library of Alexandria went up in flames.

Taking a deep breath, swallowing in disbelief of what he was about to do, Crowley snapped his fingers. When Aziraphale collapsed where he was standing, Crowley was there to catch him. Knocking him out was the thing Crowley would hear about for the rest of his supernaturally long life, but hopefully - especially since Crowley neglected to sober him up - Aziraphale wouldn’t remember anything of the night.

Knowing Aziraphale didn’t have a bed, Crowley put him on the couch, tucking a blanket around him. Stroking the blond hair out of his face, Crowley smiled sadly down at the passed out angel.

“I want nothing more than that to be true, angel,” he murmured, letting himself stroke the impossibly soft hair again. “But not like this.”

When Crowley walked out of the bookshop, door locking itself behind him, he couldn’t help but be thankful that he was alone. Thankful that there wasn’t anyone around to see him take his glasses off, take a deep breath and wipe at his eyes before getting into the Bentley.

When Aziraphale woke the next morning, it was to a splitting headache and the unmistakable feeling of something being very, very wrong. He sat up, groaning, barely aware of an unfamiliar, tartan blanket falling off of him. Holding a hand to his head, in what felt like an attempt to stop it from splitting, he made a Herculean effort and managed to sober himself up. With one last whimper, he managed to get rid of the nigh-on awe-inspiring hangover, too. 

“How much did I drink…?” Aziraphale said to himself before swinging his legs off the couch. The blanket still pooled in his lap, he took a moment to collect himself, fingers going up to massage his temples. He stilled, however, when images from the night before suddenly came back to him. Summoning Crowley, hugging him,  _ nuzzling  _ him - and then telling him...

“Oh, Lord Almighty,  _ what have I done _ ?” he fretted, burying his head in his hands. The headache he’d managed to rid himself off came back with a vengeance. He had to make this right - maybe Crowley would never again want to speak with him, but he had to explain himself at least. Crowley deserved that much (and much, much more, if Aziraphale was being honest with himself - and the situation at hand really necessitated honesty).

Getting himself in order to go out and make his way to Mayfair didn’t take one-tenth of the time he spent trying to work up the courage to actually go. Patting the blanket after absentmindedly folding it up, he realised just what it was that was so familiar about it. The whole thing was interwoven with a very familiar, much-loved demonic essence. Staring at the blanket, folded over the back of the sofa, Aziraphale was struck with an epiphany, and in hindsight, he couldn’t understand how he’d missed it. Crowley loved him too. 

With a new spring in his step, Aziraphale made his out of the bookshop, heading for Mayfair. 

Crowley did, rather decidedly,  _ not  _ have a spring in his step when someone started incessantly banging on his door. He’d just gone to bed in preparation for another century-long nap - not for any particular reason, you understand, he just felt like it. Nothing to do with a certain angel, absolutely not. 

Opening the door to see that the angel in question - that is, the angel he absolutely was not avoiding - was the one who was banging on his door, Crowley just took the easy way out; he shut the door in Aziraphale’s face.

An epic battle of will proceeded to play out in the hallway outside a flat in Mayfair, that day; the participants were Aziraphale, who really wanted the door to open, Crowley, who really wanted the door to stay shut, and the door in question, who didn’t really care one way or another but would really prefer it if the two occult beings stopped tugging it back and forth. 

Crowley’s will for the door to stay closed proved just a little bit stronger than Aziraphale’s will to open it, so when the door stayed resolutely closed, Aziraphale sank down to sit on the floor, leaning his back to the door. With a thump, he let his head fall back and rest against the door, too, unknowing that Crowley was sitting in an identical position on the other side of it. 

“Crowley, if you can hear me… I am very sorry for last night,” Aziraphale said, hesitantly. Quiet reigned for a very long moment, time almost seemed to stand still, before the reply came.

“Go home, Aziraphale.” Instead of doing what he’d been asked, Aziraphale closed his eyes in relief - as long as Crowley was there to hear him, maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale could make things right again.

“I  _ am _ home, my dear. No place is home without you, and I’m only sorry I didn’t realise that sooner.” Opening his eyes again, looking unseeingly at the ceiling, Aziraphale could only hope Crowley was still listening and could hear everything he said - and everything he didn’t say, too.

On the other side of the door, Crowley  _ was _ listening, but couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. It just didn’t add up, what he was hearing and what he’d experienced. 

“I am so,” Aziraphale began, stuttering, before going quiet again. “Odd, isn’t it? My entire existence, I’ve worked with words, and yet, now they fail me when I need them the most.”

Picking at a loose thread in his vest, Aziraphale tried to collect his thoughts. In the quiet that fell, he imagined he could hear fabric rustling, a sign of Crowley still being on the other side of the door. 

“Humans say that home is where the heart is, have you heard that saying?” Aziraphale paused, hoping that maybe Crowley would reply, give a real sign he was still listening.

Crowley, meanwhile, had pulled his knees to his chest and was leaning his forehead on them, listening to the angel outside the door. He thought he knew where this could be going, but he daren’t believe it actually was happening. 

“Home is where the heart is, and - you’re my home, Crowley. You’ve held my heart in your hands for thousands of years, and I just didn’t realise it until so much later…” Aziraphale sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

Still leaning against the door, not prepared for it to open, Aziraphale fell over, breath escaping him in a woosh as his back hit the floor. He couldn’t help but notice that, even upside down, Crowley was absolutely breathtaking. He also noticed that while Crowley didn’t look very impressed, the luminously golden eyes, for once not hidden behind dark glasses, showed just how anxious the demon was.

“What are you saying, angel?” Crowley said, still holding the door, just watching as Aziraphale scrambled to his feet. Brushing himself off, Aziraphale took a deep breath before looking up at the demon again, trying to hide just how relieved he was by the nickname. Another deep breath, eyes still locked on Crowley’s, Aziraphale laid his heart at the demon’s feet, hoping it wouldn’t be trampled upon.

“That I love you, dearest, I love you most ardently. I love you like the shore loves the tide, like words love the pages they’re written on, I love you so much I don’t know how to handle it, so I didn’t.” Aziraphale resolutely kept his eyes on Crowley’s, but he was so nervous he didn’t exactly see him - or anything else, for that matter.

He startled, then, when Crowley’s hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone, brushing away tears Aziraphale hadn’t realised he was shedding.

“And you say words fail you, angel,” Crowley murmured softly, fondly, letting the love he’d felt so long shine through in his eyes, loosening the tight reigns he held over the feeling. He saw the instant Aziraphale realised what he was feeling, the sky-blue eyes closing, a reverent look on his face.

“Words will never be able to convey how much I love you, dearest, but I can only try,” Aziraphale said, opening his eyes and meeting Crowley’s gaze head-on. “I’ve neglected to tell you for so long, and I can never make that up to you. How long…?”

“How long have I loved you?” Crowley finished the sentence, quirking a smile at the angel, hand still cupping his cheek. “Since Eden, angel. As long as I have known you, I have loved you.”

Aziraphale reached up to take Crowley’s hand in his own, thumb absently stroking the back of it. 

“I’ve been so blind, my darling, and I must’ve caused you such suffering,” Aziraphale said, mourning how much time they had lost.

Crowley took a step closer to him, leaning his head down to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s, both of them closing their eyes, taking a moment to just breathe together.

“No matter, angel - it seems you’ve got caught up now,” Crowley replied, not opening his eyes, but smiling a fond smile nonetheless. 

Aziraphale chuckled lowly, the hand not occupied with Crowley’s sneaking around his neck, fingers curling in the short hair at his nape. 

Standing there, in the doorway of a flat in Mayfair, a demon and an angel kissed for the very first time. Outsiders looking on wouldn’t have seen anything more than two men-shaped beings kissing, but for the two, time stood still. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills square S5 of my As the saying goes bingo card, "Home is where the heart is".
> 
> Fills prompt #63 from [this list](https://isauntervaguelydownwards.tumblr.com/post/187781472717/angstfluff-prompt-list) "I am home".
> 
> Find me at [isauntervaguelydownwards](https://isauntervaguelydownwards.tumblr.com)


End file.
